


Surge

by obstinatrix



Category: Good Omens (TV) RPF
Genre: Comeplay, Feminization, M/M, PWP, Rimming, Unsafe Sex, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-16 13:47:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20829965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinatrix/pseuds/obstinatrix
Summary: "Come on," David says, wheedling. "Come on, properly. It's not like you'll knock me up, is it?"





	Surge

**Author's Note:**

> I joyfully ignore everything taking place in so-called "real life." Briefly considered posting this on anon but, like, given my back catalogue, we can only say: why? 
> 
> The slightly scary stuff in the tags is mild and this is primarily just a comeplay fic with some accidental feelings at the end.

"I haven't got anything," Michael says in his ear. His voice is all ragged apology, his body overheated and bare between David's legs. He's three fingers deep in David, slickness glistening all down his wrist and the back of his hand, and David swears, shifts his feet; clamps down on him. 

"Don't care. Michael --" 

"Last week," Michael says, a bit giddy, "I was doing a talk at a university and there were condoms in all the loos. Little box saying 'please take one.'" 

"Fancy that," David says, strained. "Safety first. Lovely. But I, I really --" 

"Could just fuck you like this," Michael suggests. He rocks his hand, spreads his fingers. The knob of his wristbone wedges firm against David's perineum and his thumb rubs under his balls and it's, it's good, but they've been doing this weeks now and David thinks he knows enough about Michael to trust him, just a little. 

"Come on," David says, wheedling. "Come on, properly. It's not like you'll knock me up, is it?" 

A pause. Something crosses Michael's face, there and then gone again, in the second before he, carefully, withdraws his hand. David breathes out, spreads his thighs helpfully. He can't bear to think too much about how he probably looks, but he knows Michael likes it: the dark hair between his legs all sticky with lube and his cock curved up against his stomach. 

"S'pose not," Michael says after a minute, slowly. He sounds distracted and, looking at him, David anticipates the touch before he feels it: Michael's arms looping under his thighs, lifting him bodily, and then Michael's tongue on him, pushing inside. 

"Oh -- " His legs jerk reflexively and he gropes at Michael's shoulders, then his hair. Michael's good at this, which really translates to him being obviously into it, sucking at David's rim and then fucking him as deep as he can get with his tongue, wet and messy and heedless of it. David arches his back, curving his hips upward, and hears Michael breathe out hard through his nose, fingers gripping the meat of David's thighs. 

It feels so -- so _filthy_. It always does; nobody's ever done this to him before. He'd never have _let_ a woman do it; it seems -- well. It's stupid, he knows, but it seems somehow below them. If David's with a girl, it's for him to eat her out, make her come, but when he's with Michael -- 

"Don't think you can distract me with this." His voice has edged up into its higher regions, a bit quavery. Michael, predictably, likes that too: _it's like I'm fucking the prime out of Miss Jean Brodie._ Now, he lifts his head, and David's stomach turns over at the look on his face, the wet of his mouth. 

"No?" He kisses David, gently, where he's loose and open and somehow the tenderness of it is the most obscene thing of all. "You don't like me going down on you? My tongue in you?" A breath. "Me licking your little cunt?" 

The word hits somewhere under his ribs, sending a curl of heat up inside him. He hadn't expected it -- that word in Michael's mouth or his own reaction to it -- but Michael's looking at him hungrily, at his cock twitching against the flat of his stomach and his chest heaving with the shock of want, and he can't deny it. He doesn't want to. 

"Didn't say that." He licks his lips, touches his thumb to the swell of Michael's lower lip. Michael closes his eyes briefly, rubbing his mouth against David's thumb until it slips just barely inside, catching at the edge of dampness. "Mouth's good. But I want--

"What?" Eyes open again, immediate. Seaglass green. 

"You know what," David says, breathless. 

"Tell me." 

David closes his eyes. Michael's hands have drifted back between his legs, petting at him without ever pressing inside, and the teasing pressure of it is driving him to distraction. "Your cock," he manages, with effort. "I don't care about the -- just fuck me, please." 

_We haven't got all day,_ he wants to say. _We never have all day, or even all afternoon. I'm here and I want you and I'm yours, you've got me, so take me. Break me open, make me remember it. Make me wear it the rest of the week, your mark on me._

But Michael's surging up over him, kissing his mouth, and he opens for it gratefully, clutching at his waist, palming his hips and his thick thighs and the curve of his arse. Good, yes, no talking; Michael's given in. 

Then Michael pulls back, forehead against David's, and says: "What if I do?" 

"What?" David's trembling, locking his legs around Michael's waist, already groping between their bodies for Michael's cock. 

Michael licks his lips, kisses him again. "Knock you up. Get you…" 

He trails off, as if he's afraid. David's never seen Michael afraid to do or say anything before, in bed or out of it, and for some reason it makes his throat tighten and his cock throb. It makes him brave. 

"I've never," he says, carefully. He takes hold of Michael between their bodies, wraps his fingers around him. Lifts his hips until he can rub the slick head of Michael's cock against himself where he's open from Michael's fingers, wet and empty. "I've never let anyone, without…" 

It's true, too. David's not stupid; he had his wild days in the 90s when the spectre of the AIDs crisis was still achingly, unavoidably present. Doing it bare was an act of enormous recklessness, or huge and unwise trust. 

He trusts Michael, stupidly, endlessly. He says, "I want to let you." 

"_Fuck_." Michael's eyes squeeze shut. A tremor skitters through him, and then his hands are on David's hips -- not pulling; just holding. 

"You can come in me," David says, barely a breath. "I don't mind if you -- if we --" 

Michael kisses him, fierce and ruinous. He pushes inside in the same moment, the same hot surge, and David cries out, loops both arms around his neck. He feels shipwrecked under him, helpless, and the thought makes him shiver and cling. 

"You're so," Michael says, the thought unfinished; he ducks his head to David's chest and kisses the rise of it, then the nub of one nipple. David bites his lip, wallowing in the electric pull of Michael's mouth on his chest and his stomach rubbing against David's prick and the slow heavy drag of him inside. 

"What am I?" David pulls his hair, lifting his hips to meet Michael's thrusts, and Michael hisses, kisses him again, bites his throat. 

"_Pushy_." (David's never been accused of this before, but he is, he supposes, with Michael). "Gorgeous. Good at being fucked." 

"You're -- oh -- good at fucking," David says, thready. It's true: there's a relentlessness to Michael in this as in everything; all hot breath and certain hands. Michael's gripping his thighs now, pulling David more firmly down onto his cock, and David can feel himself getting wetter, his prick stiff and sticky. Michael kisses him as if in acknowledgement, then strokes him once, firmly, from root to tip, jacking his foreskin up and back over the sensitive crown. 

"You get so wet," Michael says, dark against his mouth. Marvelling. "So wet for me, it just makes me want to get you wetter. Fill you up and make a mess of you." 

"Please," says David, faintly. Michael's fucking him slowly now, deep thorough strokes that make his skin tingle everywhere. The muscles in his thighs are jumping. 

"I'm going to come in you," Michael promises, "until you can't keep it in, and then I'm going to --" 

David hitches a breath, lifts his hips, feels his cock swell in Michael's hand -- 

" -- I'm going to lick it back out of you; oh -- _David_ \--" 

"_Please,_" David says. 

Michael comes in a rush, face tucked into the sweaty curve of David's throat. It's hot and sudden and David's legs shake, feeling it; feeling the wet of it easing Michael's thrusts as he shivers and slows. By the time Michael finally stills, David's wet all down his thighs and it's -- 

"You too," Michael says, voice sex-strained, against his jaw; "come on, sweetheart, let me have it." 

He pushes down against him, just the pressure of his body against the mess between David's legs. He fists David's cock, squeezes him, thumbs at his slit. Then Michael's mouth finds his, ungainly with orgasm, and David comes, slicking Michael's hand and his stomach and the bed; bites at Michael's lip until the wave recedes and leaves him panting. 

Afterwards, Michael shifts off him, just barely. David feels decadent and bruised, like an overripe fruit, and when Michael's fingers search him out between his thighs he doesn't resist, just shivers and turns his face to meet Michael's mouth. 

"Gorgeous," Michael says again, running his fingers through the mess they've made of David. He pets down over his soft cock, back between his thighs, and then tucks two fingers inside him, searching him out where he's hot and soft and sensitive. "God, I love you like this." 

_Like this_ tempers it, of course. _Like this_ is all right. Michael can love him _like this_, fucked-out and trusting and sticky with sex, and it's...it's… 

"Go on, then," David says, all gravel, putting his hand in Michael's hair. Pushing at his shoulder, just barely. No time to think about that; no time to think at all. "Clean me up." 

Michael laughs, kisses his stomach, parts his thighs. Licks avidly at the core of him. 

"Thought you'd never ask."

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry I can't seem to write proper fic at the moment -- in the words of that viral Tumblr post, writing irredeemable RPF porn is my version of "cleaning the wound," apparently.


End file.
